If A Winchester Falls In The Forest
by LaedieDuske
Summary: Merry Christmas to Dizzo! For her prompt over on the Hoodie Time Christmas Wish List. Chapter 3 now up! Love it? Hate it? Let me know!
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: If A Winchester Falls In The Forest  
**Author**: .com/  
**Pairing**: None  
**Word Count**: 2165  
**Rating**: 13+  
**Warnings**: Blood, minor swearing

**Spoilers: **None**  
Disclaimer: **I own neither the boys, nor Supernatural. I own this story, though, so no copying, distributing, etc.**  
A/N: For the lovely and talented Dizzo from her Hoodie_Time Christmas Wish List. "**Wish 2: I love any non-slash story where Dean is suffering from any chest/lung/rib related illness/injury. As much or as little medical intervention as you see fit; The more scared/uncomfortable Dean is and the more caring/hands-on Sam is, the better. Once again, the image description is more important than the plot!**" ****(UPDATE: Chapter 2 is currently in the works, by special request. I will post it as soon as it is finished. Thanks for reading!)**

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_Sam could count on one hand the number of times Dean had answered "no" when asked "are you okay?". Unfortunately, this was one of those times._

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It couldn't have happened when they were closer to civilization. Oh no. That would have been too _easy_ and when the _hell_ did the Winchesters ever do _anything_ the easy way?

Two days out, both brothers weighed down by the sleepless nights spent shifting boulder-sized rocks out from under their sleeping bags. Two. Days.

The only dubious stroke of luck is that it's still light out when it happens.

A flash of grey fur too fast for his eyes to track and suddenly Dean is lifted off his feet over the creature's head. He does not even have time to cry out before he is slammed to the ground flat on his back a millisecond later. Sam hears the breath punch out of his brother's body, swears he can hear the bones snapping on impact. The creature rears up, ready to slash open Dean's belly to get to his tasty-chewy centre. Sam's ears fill with desperate wheezing rattles as Dean tries to draw air into his battered body.

A red veil descends over Sam's vision as the creature reaches the just-far-enough-away-from-Dean point he hastily calculates in his head. He snaps off two shots so close together it's almost a single report. Head and heart. The furry _thing_ never makes a sound, stiffening for just an instant before falling across Dean's twitching form.

Terror and adrenaline conspire against him, and Sam's mind checks out for just a moment. The next instant he's aware of, he has shoved the cooling corpse off his brother and is watching helplessly as Dean tries to draw a breath.

He's intimately acquainted with the instinctive fear that goes along with having the breath knocked out of your body, your brain screaming _suffocating-can't-breathe-gonna-die_ and ratchets it up every second you can't pull in a solid breath.

Dean's eyes are squeezed shut, his arms are wrapped around his ribs as he writhes weakly in the blood-soaked dirt. Sam desperately hopes none of it is his, but that will have to wait. He lays one huge hand on Dean's stomach, the other on his forehead, grounding the older Hunter and giving him something to focus on besides the pain.

"S'ok Dean, you're gonna be alright man," he soothes, his thumb gently rubbing circles on the trembling belly, "you've gotta try to relax, though. I know that's not the easiest thing right now, but you know struggling will only make it worse." He's rewarded by just a sliver of green peering through moist lashes. "That's it, easy bro. I know it hurts, just listen to my voice okay?"

A shiver passes through Dean's body and a strangled, pained sound breaks free from his throat as his face crumples in agony. A tear squeezes from the corner of one eye. Sam has never heard his brother make such a helpless noise and he hopes with every fibre of his being he never hears it again.

"Come on Dean, don't make me do mouth to mouth. There isn't enough Listerine in the world..." he lets the thought drift off unsaid. His gaze intent on the injured man's face, he can't miss the eyebrow twitch, the almost-smirk lifting one corner of his mouth. He feels the tension dissipate slightly under his hand as Dean's belly rises with a shallow breath.

Relief floods through him, warm and welcome. He takes _his_ first deep breath in what feels like eons.

"Can you talk?" he asks, hesitantly. He doesn't want to cause Dean any more pain, but he needs to know exactly where he's hurt.

Sam feels the shallow breath shiver into his brother's abdomen. Dean opens his mouth and all that comes out is a wheezing squeak. It'd be worth years of torment if it wasn't such a dire situation. He shakes his head, the barest sliver of motion, and clenches his jaw against the starburst of pain it wrings from his ribs.

"Alright, it's okay, just - " He doesn't know what it is he is about to say. _Hold on? Don't move? Hang in there? Relax?_ It all seems so patronizing and obvious. "Fingers and toes?" He watches the ripple of fingers on both sides, slow and jerky but moving. Dean nods, a tiny movement down then back up - his toes are fine too.

He stops his thumb's incessant movement, sure that by now he's worn a track on Dean's stomach with the calloused pad. Taking a deep, steadying breath he exhales slowly as he carefully removes the strong arms wrapped protectively around a blood-soaked torso. Dean drags his lower lip between his teeth and clamps down, determined to stay still and silent.

"I'm just gonna lift your shirt so I can see what we're dealing with, okay?" Sam unconsciously mirrors the action, biting down hard on his bottom lip, positive he's causing the other man pain.

As he peels the sticky material away, baring the pale freckled skin beneath, he is initially relieved to find the skin unbroken. The normal golden tone of his skin is lost to pain and shock but the blood is from the beast, and is that ever a dark blessing. As he lifts the bottom of the shirt up past the bottom of Dean's sternum, though, he can see the perfect outline of the creature's over-sized mitts bruised into his flesh.

Shit.

Dean's hands twitch slightly at the sensation of the wet shirt peeling away from hyper-sensitized skin. He's resisting the urge to wrap his arms back around himself with everything he has left. Sam can see his body practically vibrating with pain and for a moment he lays his palm back on Dean's forehead. He knows he should start talking again, give his brother something to focus on, but there's a lump that's settled in his throat. He's afraid if he speaks he'll let loose the torrent of emotion that's trapped behind the lump and that won't do anyone any good.

So he sits for a moment until Dean's breathing evens out slightly and he releases his bottom lip from its prison, leaving perfect impressions of his top teeth in the tender flesh. Green eyes peer out again from beneath heavy lids in time to see Sam release his own lower lip and try for a comforting smile.

"Good?" he asks gently.

"'kay." A small breath, a word, the first one he's spoken and Sam feels something loosen in his chest.

"'kay." He echoes and lets his hands carefully drift over tender flesh and bone.

He feels the jagged ends of broken ribs grind together in not one, not two, but _four_ different places and of _course_ they can't even all be on the same _side_. As he passes over the fourth and final one, Dean finally loses his composure and whimpers.

Fucking _whimpers_.

And that's as bad as that other _I-hope-I-never-hear-that-again_ sound, and guilt slicks through Sam's chest like a cold shiv. _He_ made that sound pass his brother's lips, and that hurts worst of all.

"You okay?" He could kick himself for asking such a stupid question, but the little brother in him just reared his head up and desperately needs his big brother to tell him he's fine, it's all fine, they'll both be fine.

"No." It's almost a sob and Sam can't help but wonder what kind of damage his back is hiding pressed against the unforgiving ground. He can feel the pained tremors passing through the prone form and he's suddenly swallowing past the lump again.

Sam's hands move like they have minds of their own, before he can stop himself he has one of Dean's hands clamped in his and pressed to his chest tight enough that he's sure his brother can feel his heart hammering against his ribs. His other hand returns to the older man's forehead and he finds himself almost wishing his injured sibling would bat his hands away like he always does. Instead, Dean rolls his face into Sam's huge paw and tries to breathe through the worst of it. He gives it a moment.

"Alright," he breathes, terror stomped down for the moment, decision made, "I've got to sit you up, Dean. I have to check your back, okay?"

A moment passes with no response and the fear starts to claw its way back up his throat again.

"'kay Sammy." comes the breathy response just as he's about to lose it.

There is no way he can be careful enough, not with someone who is so broken, so he does the best that he can. He leans way over and wraps his arm around Dean's chest, bracing the broken ribs as well as he can against his palm on one side and bicep on the other. Firm pressure to hold them immobile but not tight enough to shift the broken ends he hopes. He carefully maneuvers his other arm behind the shoulders, bracing neck and head with his hand as he levers Dean carefully upright.

He's almost all the way up when it gets to be too much. Sam is startled by the sudden hoarse cry of pain. Dean drags in a wheezing breath and manages to whisper _'Sammy'_ before slipping his grip on consciousness.

Working quickly and carefully, he rucks up the bloody t-shirt in the back to examine the extent of damage to Dean's back.

It's not good.

The severity of the bruising over his left shoulder-blade already begs a closer look. Sam gently palpates the area and, while there's no grinding of bone edges, he suspects there may still be at least a fracture there. His entire back looks as though it will blossom into colourful bruising before too long, but that's not the worst of it.

An area over Dean's left kidney, larger than Sam can span with his hand and stretching around his flank to his stomach, is an angry red-purple and too warm to the touch. He suspects at the very least a bruised kidney, at worst a lacerated one. Either way, he's got to get Dean out of there. Now.

Before he lays the still-unconscious man back down, Sam reaches over and snags one of their sleeping bags from the pack it's lashed to. Turning it inside out he spreads the upper portion behind where Dean's head and shoulders will fall. He carefully lays his brother down on top of the soft material and with minimal shifting and rearranging, manages to slide the rest of the sleeping bag fully under from head to toe.

Casting his glance around the forest floor he spots three lengths of wood that look as though they might be up to the task. Testing their durability and satisfied with their weight-bearing potential, he quickly ties them together with the sleeping bag using a rope from Dean's pack. He remembers for a moment that he teased Dean for wanting to bring it, and now he couldn't be more grateful for his brother's forethought.

Dad would be so proud. He's fashioned his very first field litter. Using his own sleeping bag, he secures Dean to the frame just as he's beginning to come to again.

"Hey bro - gonna get you outta here, okay? You've got some broken ribs and I think you may have bruised a kidney. Just stay awake if you can, 'kay? I don't know what else may be banged up inside there. Does anything else hurt?" That earned him an _are-you-out-of-your-mind_ stare and he felt the frustration rise once again when he thought about how far they were from help. "What else hurts?"

"Ev'thing."

He couldn't help it, he huffed out a chuckle. "Not helpful, man. Think you can keep some Advil down?"

There was a momentary pause, and then, "Yeah."

Moving quickly, Sam dug out the first aid kit and one of the water bottles, dosing Dean up with painkillers and repacking everything into a single pack.

"Okay, let's get you back to your baby, alright?"

Two days in to where they were at. Sam was betting he could make it out in half that time if he didn't stop for the night. No matter what he did, the trek was going to be excruciating for Dean and he wanted it over and done with as fast as he could manage.

Dean took a breath and gave a small nod. It was time to go.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: The response to this piece has been incredible to me, I am humbled by and grateful for everyone who has commented on LJ and ff.n as well as the unexpected link-love. I can't thank you all enough for your support and kind words. I can only hope this chapter lives up to whatever you enjoyed in the first one. I would also like to say that I am not a doctor - I researched the best that I could and will just have to ask you to please suspend your disbelief if you can should there be something glaringly wrong. Once again: this is for Dizzo and, most of all, I hope it lives up to your wishes! ****Word Count**: 3314

**Chapter 2**

It was late afternoon by the time Sam got them pointed back in the direction of the Impala. Seemed sort of strange to be heading out almost exactly two days to the hour after starting in, almost like it should mean something. He tried to distract himself by calculating how far along they would be if they had actually managed the early morning start they had wanted to get for the trek in.

He wondered if they would have found it first if they had managed that early morning start.

He wondered if Dean would still have been injured if they had been there sooner.

A mutinous part of his brain wondered if it would have been worse somehow, he clenched his jaw against the thought tight enough to hurt.

Sam had clipped the headlamp to the outside of the backpack hoping Dean would be able to handle the bumpy ride well enough for him to continue into the night without stopping. He seriously doubted that would happen, listening to the shallow, raspy breaths from behind him punctuated by the occasional pained grunt. Dad had taught them to be prepared for any eventuality better than any Boy Scout troupe ever could have, though.

He let his thoughts drift back to the day he picked up the headlamps, one for each of them. Dean had bitched a blue streak about them, Sam had listened to hours of whining about how it would mess up Dean's hair every time he came across them stowed in the gear. He knew his brother wasn't particularly vain, but he had always been meticulous about his hair.

_Hey, at least I never have to worry about pony-tailing it in the middle of a fight _he liked to say, with a meaningful look at Sam's thick mane. It got to the point where Sam would mutter the words along with Dean and usually earn himself a good-natured swat for it.

When the time came to use the headlamps for the first time, Dean had grabbed his and slapped it on his head as though he'd been wearing it for years. Sam knew in that moment his brother had thought it was a good idea all along, had just felt obligated to give his little brother a hard time about doing something clever.

Because that's what big brothers are for, right?

At least, that's what _Dean_ was for. Sam would have given nearly anything in that moment for Dean to be able to harass him about his hair, or his geek brain, or any one of a thousand other things Dean teased him about in his own unique way of showing affection.

And god_damn_ didn't it just suck that he was hurt so badly he could barely draw air into his lungs and he hadn't even been doing anything stupid when it happened? Though he would undoubtedly deny it, Sam knew Dean was one of the best hunters out there. Seemed like the only time he ever got hurt was when he threw himself between someone and whatever danger was bearing down on them.

Between _Sam_ and danger.

Not this time. This time he had been hurt because Sam had not watched his back well enough. The thing had come from behind Dean, charging into the space between the two men before Sam could focus on the blur moving into his field of vision.

If he had just been a little faster.

"Sam." The sudden almost-whisper of his name nearly made him stumble. He caught his footing as smoothly as he could, cursing and praying he didn't jar Dean too badly when he heard the hiss of pain slide past his brother's defenses.

"One sec Dean." He was surprised to realize twilight was already settling through the trees, darkness falling sooner inside the cover of the forest. He had not realized so much time had passed, lost in his thoughts. He should have checked on Dean already, should probably have dosed him with more painkillers.

He stacked that guilt neatly on top of the rest as he looked for a place to prop the litter so he could have a look at his brother before darkness fell. The forest floor rose in a gentle curve on his right, the crest of a hill some several feet above his head and not too distant. To his left the slope continued downward, not so gently, on the other side of the trail he was standing on. Short of propping the crossed section he was gripping against one of the trees lining the trail, resting it on the up-slope was just about the best option.

"Gonna set you down for a sec so I can get a look at you Dean. Okay?" He did not wait for a reply, suddenly wanting more than anything to lay his eyes on Dean once more before darkness fell.

"You crawl any farther...inside that big head...you'll need a roadmap...to get back out." The short sentence rattled apart by too-shallow, wheezing breaths. By the time he managed to force out the last few words, Sam was kneeling beside him with _that look_ on his face. "Not your fault...Sam. Stop blamin'... y'self."

"Just. Don't talk for a minute, 'kay Dean? Lemme have a look, I'll get you some more Advil and you should try to eat something before we get started again." Sam watched his brother's face go from a frightening grey tone (and yeah, let's just add that to the _never-want-again_ list right friggin' _now_) to a pale shade of green at the mention of food.

An empathetic flinch passed through Sam as he undid the sleeping bag and rope combination that was holding Dean securely to the litter. He could see the spasms of pain passing across the older man's face, despite his efforts to hide it, as his own muscles had to engage slightly to hold him in place. As Sam got close to the final knot he felt a shudder rip through Dean, saw his pale face crumple in agony when his muscles instinctively contracted hard against the motion.

Tossing the backpack off his back to rest against his leg, Sam moved quickly to remove the last few knots. Unzipping the pack and reaching into it with one hand, he leaned over and braced Dean's ribs with his other arm again hoping to offer him some small relief from the pain. The acrobatics were well worth it when he heard the wheezing lessen somewhat for the next few slightly deeper breaths, some of the tension slipping from the injured man's trembling frame.

He was still fishing for the Advil when all hell broke loose again.

Sam found himself suddenly sliding down the rough bark of a tree, slamming to his ass at the foot of the trunk with black spots dancing in his vision. A flash of the now-familiar grey fur had him wondering for a moment if he'd been knocked unconscious and was reliving earlier events.

A harsh, pained cry from Dean shook his brain loose from that thought.

A mate?

Really?

What the _fuck_?

Some detached corner of his brain drifted out _guess that's proof someone can love even the ugliest mother_ as he shoved himself to his feet. Why had he never given any thought to a mate?

_Beat yourself up later,_ he thought as he launched himself toward where the angry creature had snatched Dean up by one arm and crushed him to its chest. He heard Dean yelp again but it was weak and cut off abruptly. The sound seared into his brain, cut him to the bone. He would be hearing it in his nightmares along with the rest of the unpleasant soundtrack of the day, Sam was sure of it.

As it turned to dive off the edge of the trail down the embankment, Sam shifted his upper body downward on the fly and snatched his boot knife from its sheath.

He had Dean's .45 in his waistband, but there was no way he could pop off a shot without possibly hitting his brother. No way was he risking that.

Burdened as it was with Dean's dead weight, the beast's movements were slowed enough that he thought he might stand a chance. He hoped his pain had dropped the other hunter into the soft bosom of unconsciousness because what he was about to do would suck hugely for both of them if he was still awake.

As the grey-furred head vanished down over the edge of the trail, Sam vaulted over the drop and onto its back. He used his momentum and considerable weight to slam the butt of his knife into the thing's ugly skull as he wrapped his other arm around its shoulder, trying to grab Dean's shirt and brace him for the impact. His fingers skittered ineffectively off the front of Dean's button-up as the creature loosed a raw, primal howl of pain and spun towards Sam shaking him loose. Its elbow slammed into the side of his face as it flung Dean's limp form further down the slope with the other powerful arm.

His vision blurred out as, for the second time that day, he heard the air slammed from his brother's lungs. The sound infuriated him, rage burned through him searing away everything but the tunnel-vision zeroed in on that ugly grey muzzle.

"Leave my brother alone you _ugly sonofabitch_!" he heard himself snarl and he hardly recognized his own voice through the haze of emotions.

He had no memory of drawing the .45, instinct taking over and channeling years of training into a zone that needed no conscious thought. Before he realized what he was doing he'd snapped off half a dozen shots. The thing was completely unrecognizable.

Barely resisting the urge to tuck the hot barrel back into his waistband, he sprinted down to the crumpled form draped motionless over a large boulder. Long fingers danced across his brother's skull, checking for bumps or blood and he was relieved to find neither.

Bracing Dean's head and neck he carefully turned the battered man over, cradling his broken upper body carefully against his chest. Not wanting to see but needing to look anyway.

Between one heartbeat and the next it seemed, the sun slipped behind the horizon leaving the forest floor in near-total darkness. That heartbeat was all he needed to see the blood leaking from his brother's mouth.

"Oh shit, _nonono_ Dean, c'mon man, don't do this." he whispered. The headlamp was still clipped to his pack at the top of the hill. Without it he wasn't sure he could tell whether the blood was from a split lip or a bit tongue, or if the broken ribs had shifted and punctured something inside his sibling's body.

His hand instinctively sought out the pulse-point below the jaw, the weak _thud-thud_ against the pads of his fingers brought tears to Sam's eyes. The thought of doing chest compressions on the broken form in his arms made him sick to his stomach.

A chill screamed through his veins as he realized Dean wasn't breathing. Another flash of almost-deja-vu, except this time he wasn't even struggling. Sam felt himself strangling, fear and frustration closing his throat off so tight he couldn't breathe either.

A choking sob preceded a growl wrenched deep and painful from his chest. This was _not_ happening. He was _not_ losing his brother this way. He rubbed his big palm back and forth across Dean's stomach, avoiding the broken ribs but hoping to elicit some response with the gentle pressure.

Nothing.

"Dean, come on man, don't you leave me. I get it, I do, lesson learned, it sucks to be left behind by the ones you love. I'm here, though, and I'm not going anywhere and you can't _either."_ He'd started with gentle taps to Dean's cheek when the words started pouring out of his mouth, but as he spoke he realized he was not getting a response and the terror of losing his brother twisted in his chest.

In the space of a couple words he escalated from a not-so-gentle tap to a stinging slap serving as a sort of punctuation, ending his rambling with a stunned silence.

He pressed his hand back to Dean's stomach as horror swept through him. He'd just _hit_ his desperately injured _brother_. What the hell was _wrong_ with him?

His mental self-flagellation was interrupted by a gurgling breath shuddering into the trembling body under his palm. The sudden sting of the slap overrode his body's natural reaction to having the breath driven from it again, but the shock of it caused Dean to draw in too much too quickly. He choked as the blood bubbled up into his throat, coughing and gasping. Fresh blood ran down his chin, gruesomely black against his pale flesh even in the near-dark.

Dean was growing cold to the touch, and the wet burbling sound that accompanied each shallow breath told Sam everything he needed to know.

He lifted Dean in his arms as carefully as he could, wavering for a moment before finding his balance point. As he started carefully making his way up the hill to where the gear lay waiting in the dark, he started talking.

They both seemed to have a sixth sense where the other was concerned, and the sound of one's voice always seemed to give the other comfort when they were hurt or sick. He hoped the same held true now, that Dean was not so far under that he could not hear him. Sam rambled about anything and everything that crossed his mind, not always making sense but pressing onward until a different thought dragged him in another direction.

By the time the shining chassis of the Impala blinded him through the edge of the trees, he'd nearly lost his voice. He had worked past exhaustion some dozen or so hours before and only the sheer need to not hurt his brother further kept him from staggering as he moved.

He slowed to a stop for the briefest of moments as tears welled up and he fought for control, overwhelmed by exhaustion and relief. Sam always teased Dean about his love of that damn car, how he treated it like it was _family_ for crying out loud. Sam could admit it always symbolized _home _in his mind, but actually talking to it was taking things a bit too far. In that moment, he understood.

After so much pain and blood, the absolute certainty he was going to lose his brother sometime in the last agonizing days, that damn car looked like a gift from God himself. A way out of this, the means to get help, an escape from the nightmare.

"Hey baby," he breathed, his abused voice rough and broken. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he started moving again, "Don't ever tell Dean I just said that, will you?"

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Sam was trembling with exhaustion as he somehow managed to settle Dean into the front seat. He needed to be able to keep an eye on the older man, couldn't bring himself to let his brother out of his sight. With a punctured lung and damaged kidney, sitting up was probably best anyway he told himself.

He flicked out his boot knife, recovered from the forest floor, and sliced through the rope holding the sleeping bags to the litter. Rope they could replace, he needed the sleeping bags to wrap around Dean to try to stave off shock if possible. If it wasn't already too late.

Sam gently wrapped the blankets around Dean's chilled, limp form, dragging the injured man carefully across the bench seat to lean against his side. He wrapped an arm behind Dean and braced his chest the best he could given the circumstances, hoping to keep anything else from shifting out of place.

He could also feel his brother's faint heartbeat against the palm of his hand this way, though he told himself that was nothing more than a lucky side-effect.

The navigation program on his phone said the nearest hospital was 40 minutes away.

He made it in 20.

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Sam managed to keep himself upright and conscious for the over 4 hours Dean was in surgery. He had fended off well-meaning nurses who had wanted to check him over, too, after laying eyes on the blood covering his front and the deep bruise on his cheek and eye.

The blood was not his. He did not need help. He needed his brother to be okay.

It would be two days before Sam took time enough to look at himself in a mirror and discover the impact had been hard enough to bleed his sclera red.

By the time the doctor came to talk with him, Sam's body had nearly locked up solid from the punishment he had been dealt. As he pushed to his feet his overexerted legs trembled and threatened to buckle. Gritting his teeth he locked whichever knee was bearing his weight as he moved stiffly toward the doctor.

The list was like some kind of freak medical pop quiz.

One lung was collapsed, the other punctured and had barely been functioning enough to keep Dean alive. He had a deeply lacerated kidney, a fractured scapula, 6 broken ribs, 3 of them displaced, significant internal bleeding and so many bumps, bruises and scrapes the attending doctor actually stopped logging them.

But the thing that made Sam's stomach clench and sent him dizzy with dread was when the doctor said Dean would have to be on a ventilator until his lungs healed sufficiently to sustain life on their own.

When Dean was finally moved into his own room a nurse in hot pink scrubs was dispatched to retrieve Sam from the waiting room. He braced himself before walking into the room, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight of his brother looking so pale and broken once again. Dean's snow-white face was actually lighter than the hospital bedding, his freckles standing out in sharp contrast over his slack face. Injury, exhaustion, pain, blood loss or some combination of all of them leaving deep purplish-black bruising around his eyes.

Everything hit Sam at once and he wobbled over and dropped heavily into the thickly padded chair beside the bed. He was distantly aware that there was a cot made up in the room for him, but with the last of his strength he dragged the chair closer to his brother's bedside.

Sam took Dean's hand in his own, carefully avoiding one of the IV ports that pierced both of his brother's hands. He reached his other hand up to rest on what he hoped was an undamaged section of badly abused flesh and bone over Dean's heart. Despite the fact that a machine was breathing for him, Sam took comfort in the rhythmic rise and fall of Dean's chest and the steady, even beat of the heart under his hand.

"I'm here Dean. I'm right here and I'm not going anywhere, so you just keep fighting and come back to me big brother. We've still got lots to do, ya know." He dropped his unbruised cheek to his brother's arm and finally let the darkness suck him under to where he was sure the nightmares were waiting for him.

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**A/N I am working on the next chapter now - hope to have it up soon. Thanks to everyone for your support and patience!**

**LD  
**


	3. Chapter 3

**Title**: If A Winchester Falls In The Forest (3/?)  
**Author**: Laedie Duske  
**Pairing**: None  
**Word Count**: 2895  
**Rating**: 13+  
**Warnings**: Mention of blood, serious swearing

**Spoilers: **None**  
Disclaimer: **I own neither the boys, nor Supernatural. I own this story, though, so no copying, distributing, etc.**  
A/N: Once again: this is for Dizzo and, most of all, I hope it lives up to your wishes!**

**A/N 2: So like I said: I'm not a medical professional, but I _am_ a hopeless perfectionist and I spent a few days too long trying to research medical aspects of this next chapter before deciding I need to just get over the fact that it won't be perfect and you'll just have to forgive me for that. Whether I can forgive myself is another question, but until and unless I befriend a doctor to interrogate every time I write a chapter like this, it'll just have to be what it is and I'm sorry if what it is is medically incorrect/impossible/improbable. So, finally, on with it:**

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**Chapter 3**

_This, Dean, this right here? This is it. This is why I have always detested the Hunting life. Watching the people I love tango with Death time after time and wondering every time if it will be the last dance. I see the good you've done Dean. I know you have saved more lives than you will ever admit to. If you didn't live this life, so many people would have died. But you _**do**_ live this life, and instead _**I**_ get to watch and wonder if you will live or die. Every time I see you hurt so badly, I feel like _**I'm** _ dying, like there's something hot and sharp and fucking deadly inside my chest trying to claw its way out._

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Sam is not sure how long he has been asleep, he just knows it has not been long, when he is jolted awake by a presence in the room.

He is awake and alert instantly, on his feet before he even realizes he has moved, but his sleep-deprived eyes are less than cooperative. He has to blink several times before the doctor comes into focus.

"Mr. Schneider, we need to have a serious talk," the doctor begins, and Sam's heart flutters like a captive bird for a moment before slamming against his ribs like a bighorn in mating season. His grip tightens on Dean's hand, still held in his.

"Is something else wrong with my brother? Is he okay? What is it?" Sam can not identify the expression on the doctor's face and it scares the hell out of him. He can hear his tone rising in panic with each sentence, but cannot stop it.

"No, no, nothing like that. Nothing has changed. We noticed something when he was brought in, though, and in the rush to stabilize him it was back-burnered." The older man is beginning to look distinctly uncomfortable.

"So what is it?"

"If you'll just have a seat - "

"Doc, _please_," Sam is getting desperate, cannot take much more playing monkey chase the weasel, "I just spent thirty hours or so dragging my seriously injured brother out of Satan's back acre, not sure if he was going to live or die, listening to the agony he was in with each and every step I took and there was nothing I could do about it. Couldn't even rouse him enough to take anything. I am exhausted and I just want to focus on Dean until he is better. If you have something to say, please just spit it out."

"I am sorry Mr. Schneider. I am afraid that is exactly what makes all of this so difficult. We...uh...we noticed the rather large bruises on his chest. The ones that are _hand shaped_ and...uh...well...is there any chance you hit your brother?"

Sam's jaw hangs open. He can't believe what he has just heard. Did this idiot really just accuse him of hitting Dean after all he has been through?

He is overwhelmed momentarily by the crazy urge to laugh, but he stamps down on that rather quickly. Hysteria would probably not go over well.

Instead he taps into the pain and blinding fear of the last few days, everything he has been holding back in deference to Dean's grave situation, intending to just give a glimpse into the anguish he has endured.

His frayed psyche and fragile emotions have other ideas, unfortunately. He would tell himself later that if he'd had any sleep it wouldn't have happened. Or if he had eaten anything in recent memory, perhaps.

The doctor has the grace to flinch when the tears well up in Sam's eyes.

"Dean's my _brother_. He practically raised me himself. I have looked up to him my entire life. He was my own personal superhero when I was a scrawny, nerdy kid in school." The tears are sheeting down his face and there isn't a damn thing he can do about it. He has come so close to losing Dean. Again. And still could. His world is still off-kilter, though he is embarrassed by his loss of control.

"When I got older, I learned superheroes aren't real, but my big brother is still my hero for reasons you couldn't understand." Sam's breath hitches around every few words as he talks through the tears. "So you tell me, doc. Do you think I hit him?"

The doctor looks distinctly uncomfortable, his eyes flick to the door as if he is preparing to bolt any second. To his credit, though, he stands his ground in the interest of taking care of his patient and Sam has to give him points for that.

"I'm sure you can see why I have to ask you, if you have seen the bruising on his chest. Two huge hand prints. With the size of your hands - "

"I fell on him." The lie comes quick to his lips as the rest of his brain scrambles to fill in the blanks for the story on the fly.

"Excuse me?" The doctor's face is an almost comical mixture of shock and disbelief. Sam does little more than show the pain and guilt that has been haunting him since the start, but it has the desired effect.

"I fell on him. When whatever it was attacked us, it hit him first, I bent down to check on him and it hit me from behind. When it did...I fell on him."

"So you were injured as well? Why didn't you say anything when you came in? You should have been examined too." The doctor takes a step towards Sam and he instinctively flinches away.

"I'm fine, Dean's the one who was hurt. I'm not leaving him." As the words leave his mouth, Sam could swear he feels Dean's hand squeeze his own. His eyes snap to his brother's face, only to discover Dean's eyes are still closed. If Dean can somehow hear him, he will be worried sick about Sam and would not be able to voice it. Sam sighs, knowing he cannot live with that thought.

"Fine, you can have a look doc, but I'm not leaving this room," he sighs and begins removing his shirt. He winces as the cloth peels away from a section of his back where it feels like it has been glued to his body and drags across what feels like abrasions across half his back as well.

Betadine, Neosporin, gauze, manual exam for damaged ribs or internal damage all carried out with speed and precision. The doctor is just finishing up the last of 17 stitches for a gash on Sam's shoulderblade when Sam detects the telltale increase in tempo from the heart monitor.

Dean is waking up.

When Sam says as much to the good doctor, he is met with a patronizing tone and doubt so thick he can almost walk on it.

"Dean? Can you hear me?" For a moment, there is nothing.

Then green eyes slide blearily open.

"_Dean!"_

Panic and confusion swim up from the depths of Dean's eyes, his knuckles whiten as his fists clench around the sheets. Sam lays one big hand on his brother's forehead, his other hand once again gently rubbing soothing circles on Dean's stomach.

"It's okay Dean, you're alright. You're on a vent, your lungs are damaged. Don't fight it okay? Just relax and let it do the work for you."

Dean stills, blinks up at Sam and a frown suddenly creases his forehead as he reaches out a shaking hand toward the younger man. Sam is startled when the calloused fingers gently touch his bare skin, forgetting he had stripped his torso for the exam.

Dean's eyes are already trying to slide closed again but he stubbornly refuses to let them until he gets an answer to his unasked question. His eyes are dark and filled with pain, but when he lifts his gaze up to meet Sam's concerned stare the fear that slides into place and swallows everything else is enough to take Sam's breath away. Dean is injured and hurting, but the fear he radiates is all for his little brother's well-being.

Sam slides his hand off Dean's forehead, running it gently through soft spiky hair before taking his brother's hand in his own, pressing it over his heart.

"I'm fine Dean. Little bruised, but nothing broken, nothing damaged. The doctor just gave me a once-over and cleared me. Okay?"

Dean stares at him another moment, making sure, and then gives himself over to the exhaustion and pain. As his eyes slide closed, Sam can feel the muscles fall limp under his soothing palm.

All except for the hand that's gripped in his own, clamped tight around his knuckles.

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A week and a half.

Far longer than he thought it might take, but Sam is not beyond considering whether the doctor might be prescribing himself nerve pills after dealing with Dean for that long.

It is far too early for him to be released, but Dean is literally _begging_ Sam to get him out of there. Promising the moon, the stars, anything Sam wants, just _please_ get him out of there. His voice is deeper even than his normal diaphragm-rattling rumble with a raspy, breathy quality to it that does nothing to soothe Sam's misgivings.

Something is not quite right.

Sam cannot put his finger on it.

He gives in, though, when Dean eventually works himself into such a state his entire body is trembling so violently his teeth are chattering. The only colour visible on him are his freckles and the dark smudges under his eyes, though Sam has long since memorized every rainbow-hued bruise currently darkening his sibling's abused body underneath the hospital gown. Even his hair and eyes look washed out. His pallor flashes Sam back to the limp frame in his arms, blood leaking from his mouth, not breathing as the twilight settled around them.

He cannot suppress a shudder any more than he can resist laying his hand on Dean's trembling shoulder, hoping to calm them both.

Sam talks with the doctor who most decidedly does _not_ want to release Dean despite the fact that he's earned more than a few grey hairs dealing with the "Schneider" brothers. The vent has been out a scant few days and there is at least a month of respiratory therapy to get through, which is possibly the impetus behind Dean's sudden need for a jailbreak.

The doctor finally acquiesces with strict instructions on what to look for, when to bring Dean back in, under what circumstances to call 911, what restrictions must be rigidly enforced with the stubborn elder brother and a parting "I cannot emphasize this strongly enough: your brother is not out of the woods yet. If he suffers a relapse at this stage, or any further trauma, I cannot guarantee he will pull through again."

While that last part resonates _very_ soundly in Sam's brain, some of the rest of it is lost to distraction as he simultaneously tries to listen to the doctor and figure out what it is that is 'off' about Dean.

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Four days.

Dean is the model patient for four days once Sam gets them both settled into a relatively comfortable motel.

What passes as 'model patient" for Dean Winchester, though, would likely get anyone else tied in a bag with a brick and tossed off a bridge.

Sam knows he is trying, though. He really is. It is just so frustrating for someone who is normally so active and self-sufficient to suddenly find themselves exhausted to the point of having to sit and rest halfway through the 17 steps to the lavatory. By the afternoon Dean is too wiped to even try it on his own, which galls him to no end, but the mornings are spent pushing himself as hard as he can.

Which kills Sam.

Watching his brother so obviously struggling and knowing any offer of help would not be welcomed is painful and irritating. He wishes just once Dean would accept help without it being an all out war.

It is more than that, though. Dean keeps 'forgetting' things: trying to do things for himself that are clearly outside his limitations, wanting to wander outside for Odin only knows _what_ (Sam never did get a satisfactory answer to that question). He looks at Sam with confused, wounded eyes when Sam tries to get him to do his respiratory therapy - as though Sam is punishing him for something he has no memory of doing.

Sam is worried, he is stressed and he is flirting with exhaustion himself. That is the only excuse he can think of for what happens next.

Dean wobbles upright from the bed, leaning heavily on the wall when his legs threaten to go out from under him. Sam moves in to help only to be shrugged off with a surly comment. Undeterred, he steps back half a pace so he is still within reach but giving Dean some breathing room.

It is apparently still too close.

"I got it, man! Stop friggin' feeling me up." Dean shoves off from the wall and starts striding unsteadily toward the bathroom. He manages roughly a handful of steps beyond where Sam expected him to faceplant before he suddenly freezes, raising one trembling hand to his temple. He wavers for half a second before his knees buckle and he drops like a stone.

Sam does his best to catch Dean's boneless body someplace that isn't bruised/broken/recently stitched back together but dammit he is not a magician. He ends up with one arm wrapped around Dean's chest and (_holy shit what if I just killed my brother?_) Dean rouses enough to cry out in pain before shuddering and falling limp again.

It feels like years but is really only a few seconds before Dean rouses with a gasp. Sam is in the grip of a blind terror, channeled into anger. Before he can get a handle on himself he's yelling in Dean's face, so furious the words just tumble out of his mouth of their own volition.

"Dean what the _hell_ were you thinking? Why can't you just _once_ accept the help that you clearly _need_? It's just me, man, it's not as though I'm going to judge you or think any less of you because you need my help with something. God_dammit_ Dean, I am not going to just sit back and let you _kill_ yourself because of your stupid fucking _pride_! Seriously, what the fuck - " His tirade stops as suddenly as it started when it sinks through the red haze over his eyes - Dean is crying.

_Crying._

"Shit. _Shit_ Dean. It's okay bro, come on. What's going on? Are you hurt? Did I hurt you? What can I do? Talk to me man, please." Sam wants to slam his head into the wall, this emotional roller-coaster is not the ride he signed up for when he got out of bed this morning. He is relieved Dean is breathing, though he's crying hard enough to rattle himself apart.

"S-s-sorry S-Sam, d-d-don't mean ta b-be a burden, jus-just tryna - " he's sobbing and the words are blending together when they're not hiccupped apart as he stammers around the sobs. Sam is utterly confused, what the hell is _wrong_ with Dean?

He wonders if he should load his brother up and drag him back to the hospital to be checked over after his fall, he tries to remember exactly what the doctor told him as he was signing Dean out. He pulls Dean onto his lap, one arm wrapped snug around Dean's shoulders, his other hand pressing Dean's face into the hollow of his neck under his chin. Sam feels Dean's arms wrap around his waist and his brain goes utterly blank for a second.

Jesus, Dean is _crying_ and _cuddling_. What the hell?

Sam thinks about calling the doctor for advice and it hits him - he has done some research on his own since they came from the hospital. He remembers a few of the sites he looked at mentioning depression, fatigue, confusion and muscle weakness in the aftermath of the types of lung injuries Dean has suffered. Either variety can cause the symptoms: punctured or collapsed lung. Dean had both and he's still got a long recovery ahead of him.

He is not sure if Dean will remember this once he is better but really it doesn't matter either way. Sam will do his best to see his brother through this and he will never mention it. Ever.

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**A/N 3: Okay, maybe not quite what people were looking for, but Sam and the doc had their own ideas going into this chapter. I had to decide whether to knock their heads together or let them have at it. Part of the inspiration for all of this is the fact that Dean has only once ever answered 'no' when asked if he's okay, for all the good it did him. It hit me hard when it happened, still breaks my heart when I see it, I wanted it to hit Sam hard too but it didn't. I had to fix that. :-) My life is not my own lately, so thank you to everyone for your patience and especially to Dizzo for hanging in there. Hope this fits your bill Ms. Dizz!**


	4. Chapter 4

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**A/N: To ****Queen Bee: Thank you for the anonymous review! Your kind words are much appreciated and, if you are the same Queen Bee who has commented on my other pieces, your continued support is invaluable to me. Thank you so much!**

**A/N 2: I apologize for the once-again-delayed update. Things here have been...not great...but I'm doing my best to get caught up on the updates I'm behind on. Thank you all for your patience, and for continuing to read!**

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Sam is doing his best. He really is. But if someone had told him that one day he would be stuck in a motel room taking care of a seriously hurt and over-emotional Dean he probably would have died laughing. Or put someone's lights out for talking smack about his brother. Maybe both.

Yet this is exactly where he is. He's a bit confused and way more than a bit overwhelmed by it all. Sam is not stupid _or_ blind. He was not always so clear-sighted, true, but getting to know his brother again after years away he has learned a few things.

Dean's wisecracks and tendency to hold people at arm's length are not any more who he is than the shallow, insensitive persona he uses. Dean, underneath it all, is one of the most sensitive, compassionate people Sam has ever known. He hides it, though, and he hides it well. For a long time, Sam didn't even realize what was hiding beneath the stony wall his brother erects around himself.

Dean deflects when things hit too close to home, he hides behind anger and abrasiveness. These things are not who he is either. But they are what most everyone sees.

To see Dean without these defense mechanisms, to see him laid bare is both worrisome and fraught with revelation.

Sam would never admit it to Dean, but he misses the wisecracks and jokes, the tricks his brother has perfected over the years to set Sam and everyone around himself at ease. He usually complains about Dean keeping him at arm's length, pushing everyone away, refusing help, but when none of these hold true he finds himself wondering if his brother is broken beyond repair.

The thought scares the hell out of him.

Luckily (or unluckily, as it would turn out to be) he is saved from further mental meanderings as Dean stirs on the bed with a sound that falls somewhere between a whimper and a groan. It is a sound Sam has heard far too often of late, and it never fails to lacerate his heart.

This time, though, there is an undercurrent of anger as well.

Dean has been refusing his pain medications all day, even though he's clearly in excruciating pain. Sam just cannot wrap his brain around it.

"Dean, would you please just take the painkillers."

"No, I'm fine, I don't need any stupid drugs." Dean tries to push himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, his left arm still nearly useless with the shoulder-blade wrecked and the right is too shaky to hold him. He manages to lift himself a few inches and then, with a groan, he falls back onto the bed.

Sam feels the anger start to lace through his chest.

"Yeah Dean, you're fine, I can see how fine you are from here." Dean fixes him with a stare that is two parts hurt feelings and one part thoroughly pissed off. Sam sighs. "Dean, why won't you just - "

"_No_ Sam. I don't _need_ the friggin' _drugs!_I don't like the way they make me _feel_!"

"Oh yeah, I get that, why the hell would you not want to feel pain? How could that possibly be a good thing?" Sam is dripping sarcasm all over the rug.

"It's not that, it's - " Dean stops and his gaze slides away from Sam's, but before it does Sam catches the deeply haunted look hiding behind the anger.

"Dean?" More gently, worried, coaxing rather then browbeating. "Dean, what happened?"

"I just..." Dean swallows hard and for a moment Sam isn't sure he's going to answer, "I just don't like how disconnected they make me feel." There's something in his eyes, something more to the story that he is not sharing and whatever it is, it _hurts_.

Any other time, Sam would know exactly how to handle the situation. He knows how to dance around Dean's defenses, he's not always successful but he knows the moves to make that garner him the best chance. But with the recent outbursts of emotion and the random vulnerability Dean has displayed as a side-effect of his injuries, Sam is not exactly sure how to proceed. So he goes on instinct.

Sam makes his way to his brother's bed and gently helps him to sit up, noting every flinch and stifled groan on the way, then sits carefully at Dean's side. They are close enough to be pressed together: shoulder, hip, knee. Sam does not always dare to crowd Dean's personal space this way, but his gut is telling him that his brother may need his support if he is actually going to drag this out of him.

Dean sits for a few moments, his good arm wrapped around his chest as he learns to breathe again after the pain subsides enough to try. While he waits, Sam reaches out and snags the medications and water from the bedside stand. Dean finally submits and Sam has to wonder if he is that desperate to not have to talk that he actually is procrastinating with medication. He almost lets Dean off the hook, but this is too important.

"It was while you were - " Dean breaks off and gets that look on his face, the _hurt/lost/scared/abandoned/lonely_ that only comes out when Stanford is mentioned. Sam's stomach turns and he wonders, not for the first time, if he will ever live long enough to not feel guilty for that particular decision.

Dean clears his throat and looks at the rug between his feet, as if it holds all the answers to the mysteries of the universe.

"Dad and I were hunting a family of werecats."

Sam feels the warm bloom of anger start to fill him. He wants to grab Dean and shake him. He wants to yell _what the _fuck_ were you _thinking_ hunting a family of werecats with just the _two_ of you?_ He is not sure if Dean will start again if he interrupts, so instead he bites his tongue until he tastes the warm tang of copper.

As if he can hear Sam's inner monologue (and, hey, it's _Dean_ so he probably can) he flicks his mossy green eyes up to meet Sam's briefly, then back down to the rug, "We thought there were only three of them," he says, rather sheepishly, "turned out there were five. We managed to take out three that first night, but the other two got the drop on me and clawed me up pretty good. Dad spent the rest of that night stitching my chest and stomach back together."

Sam is grinding his teeth so hard he's sure he is going to break one. He knows what is coming, and it's already pissing him off.

"He didn't want to lose the trail, but I passed out while he was stitching me and ended up out cold for most of the day. He dosed me up that night with some oxy he'd lifted from somewhere so we could track and kill the last two. Yes I know, you don't just 'lift' oxycodone from anywhere, I don't know where he got it from Sam." His brother's mouth is hanging open in astonishment, Dean can see it from the corner of his eye. He refuses to look up, though, as though he might lose his nerve and not finish.

Dean takes a breath, blinking slow and heavy against memories he does not want to relive, against tears he does not want to fall. "Christ, Sammy, I was hurting so damn bad. Even with the oxy, I just wanted to curl up and die somewhere. I had lost so much blood I didn't even know where we were anymore. I was dizzy, my head hurt, the fuckin' nausea alone was enough to make me wish the damn things had just killed me outright. I knew Dad wouldn't wait, though, and I just couldn't take the thought of him going out there without backup. Turns out he would have been better off without me."

Sam can hear the waver in Dean's voice, sees the all too familiar _it's all my fault, _can see the pain in his eyes as they look back through the years. As badly as he wants to hug Dean and protect him from that pain, he knows full well how tenuous his brother's grip on his self-control is at this moment. Instead, he reaches out one hand and presses it gently against the good shoulder and rubs small, soothing strokes along the shoulder-blade. He is not surprised to feel Dean trembling under his palm.

"We thought we had them cornered, but they had doubled back around," Dean flinches, remembering, his arm tightening around his aching chest. This is the most he's spoken since the first time he was hurt and Sam can see the toll it is taking on Dean to go on. His eyes are dark and bruised-looking, freckles standing out in sharp contrast to his parchment-pale skin. His breathing is shallow, Sam can hear a faint wheeze with every breath and he wants to tell Dean to stop, let it go, but he knows it's already too far gone for that. Dean has to finish or he will be locked inside this memory for who knows how long.

"They knew I was hurt, knew they had to take Dad out first but I was between him and them. I'm still not positive what exactly happened, I was so out of it I could barely stand up, but I think one of them must have slammed into me on the way by. It was just too much, I..." (_was weak)_ "...folded up. I was unconscious before I even hit the ground. By the time I came around, they were both dead but Dad was clawed halfway to hell and back. Honest to Christ, Sammy, I don't know how we made it out of there. By the time we got back to the motel we were both half dead. I couldn't tell you if I helped him patch up or if he stitched himself, it's just a blur of blood and pain and struggling to breathe." The tears are sliding down his face now as his sense of failure overwhelms him.

Sam is speechless for a moment. Oh, he has plenty of things vying for his voice, but none of them would be overly productive right now. He takes a moment to swallow down the white-hot fury burning in his chest - John isn't here and for once Sam thanks whatever higher power is listening for that fact. Once again John Fucking Winchester has managed to wrench away any sense of self-worth Dean may have somehow mustered. Sam wonders for half a second whether Dean will _ever_ realize how incredible he really is.

"Dean," his voice is still strangled, holding back tears of his own, "_Jesus_ Dean, that was _not_ your fault! You really think it was the _medication _that knocked you on your ass? Seriously? You shouldn't have been out there in the first place! You were suffering from blood loss, probably exhaustion and hunger if I know you, you probably should have been in a hospital. What the hell was he thinking?"

"He was thinking more people were going to die, Sammy. We _had_ to get them." Sam expects anger, resentment that Sam is once again furious with their father, but what he gets is quiet resignation and somehow that's worse.

"It's not worth your life, Dean, and even if it _was_ - dude, don't you _get_ it?" That earns him a blank stare through tear-filled eyes, "Man, if you're dead, how can you save anyone else? If you're so gung-ho to save every life out there, whether they are your responsibility or not, who is going to do it if you're not here?"

"There are other hunters out there, there will always be someone to take over."

Sam feels the thrill of victory, it's exactly what he was hoping to hear. "That's right. There are others out there who can take over once you're gone. So why the hell can't they do it while you're still alive? Why does it always have to be _you_? And what would I do without you?"

Something like fear passes through Dean's eyes at that last question and he squeezes his eyelids shut for a moment. When he opens them again, Sam can see the bone-deep exhaustion weighing him down. He stands and shifts Dean carefully back down onto the bed, pulling the covers up over his shivering form. Dean sniffs, flinching against some sudden pain, and then he's out.

Sam sits on the edge of the bed for hours, watching over Dean as he sleeps.

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Four weeks and two motels later, Dean is finally breathing almost normally again. He has taken the medications with minimal fuss since the talk, but has not broached the subject again. Sam has not forgotten, nor has he forgiven his father for this latest insight into his brother's damaged psyche.

They are almost ready to start hunting again and Dean is chomping at the bit. Sam knows he cannot keep them idle much longer and pretends to look for hunts, hoping he can drag it out just a little bit. Just enough to make _sure_ Dean is alright. Make sure he is ready for the dangers of another hunt.

Make sure he does not make the same mistake his father made and let Dean loose before he is truly ready.

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**A/N I think that's it - thank you for reading and I hope I didn't disappoint!**


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